"So what more can I tell you?" she asked, placing the cups on a large knotted pine table which stood in the centre of the room. He paused – on purpose. He didn't want her to take control.
"I want to know more about you."
"Why me?" she replied mockingly. "I'm not part of your story. I wouldn't have invited you here if I thought you wanted to interrogate me."
"I don't want to interrogate you. But you are part of the story, just like the other people who have lived here. This house has a presence. I felt it when I came in. I need to know a little bit more about what it's like to live here."
She had turned away and was looking at the paintings.
"Tell me about those paintings. Are they yours?"
She studied them silently – taking back control.
"Yes, they're mine. I painted them. I was an art student."
"I like them. They remind me of galaxies."
She turned and looked at him approvingly.
"I think they symbolised the big ideas I had at that time. I was going to break out of my little suburban world and spread myself across galaxies – growing, changing, influencing, until eventually I would find my niche at the centre of my chosen galaxy and make my big gesture, the one that would immortalise me."
"And what happened?"
"Oh, you know, stuff – men, marriage, debt, reality, recession – the growing realisation that it wasn't going to happen. I don't want to talk about it. You shouldn't have asked me. You must go."
He could tell she didn't mean it.
"What brought you here – to Penhallam?"
She cupped her mug and looked intently at the murky brownness.
"My husband deals in antiques. That's why we came here. The idea was to use the house as a setting for expensive pieces of period furniture. We were going to bring wealthy buyers down here. My husband planned to fly them in by helicopter. Put them up here. Wine them, dine them – let them live with the antiques for a couple of days. Then get them to sign a big cheque."
"What happened?"
"The recession. Bottom fell out of the antiques market. We'd borrowed to buy this place and the income dried up. By 2010, we were desperate. Wanted to sell but couldn't find a buyer."
"But you're still here, so something must have happened."
"My husband met some people. They specialise in acquiring antiques to order for foreign buyers – Russians and Chinese especially. It's very big business. There are small communities of super-rich in those countries. You've heard of the Russian oligarchs who made fortunes after the fall of communism, well, it's the same in China. Since they liberalised trade, some people have acquired vast wealth and they like to flaunt it. Antique furniture serves that purpose well. They'll pay huge amounts for the very best – the most prestigious pieces."
"And your husband supplies them?"
"Yes. He spends most of his time travelling abroad and uses this place to store furniture before it's shipped to clients overseas. Occasionally, a van arrives and furniture is unloaded. Then, weeks later, it's collected and taken away. I don't have much to do with it any more. He just sends me a text to tell me when to expect a delivery."
"So, you don't see much of him?"
"No."
He could see that she was uncomfortable, fidgeting with her watch strap.
"So, let's talk about Penhallam."
"Oh, what a good idea. I thought you'd forgotten."
He ignored her sarcasm.
"Could we go back into the main house? It'll help me to put it all into context."
"Well, I'm not drinking any more caffeine. I'll get some wine. Do you drink red? Rioja?"
They walked back into the main house and into the main hall with its floor made from ancient sheep knuckles. She pulled back a heavy drape and he followed her into a smaller room facing onto the courtyard. Two winged leather chairs, separated by a small mahogany table, faced a stone fireplace.
"We use this as a sort of 'snug'. The rest of the house is too cold. My husband wouldn't put heating in. Said it would destroy the 'integrity' of the building."
She put a match to the kindling wood in the hearth and then poured two large glasses of Rioja into lead crystal glasses which she took from an engraved cabinet. They both sat and watched the flames greedily consuming the dry wood, feeling no need to rush the conversation.
"This was his study – Arthur Penhallam's study," she volunteered.
"He was the father who murdered his daughter and her lover?"
"That's right, Kate and John."
"Do you believe the story? It all sounds a bit far-fetched."
She shrugged dispassionately.
"That's the legend. There may have been more to it than that. The Penhallams were struggling. Their fortunes were on the decline. They felt isolated as their neighbours converted to the rebel cause. Arthur Penhallam depended on favours from the King to keep going. So a wedding between his daughter and the son of a rebel family would have brought shame on him. I think that's what he feared most – shame."
"That's not the first time I've heard that word recently," Doug sighed under his breath.
The conversation paused as they watched the kindling burn brightly. Doug noticed that Julia was lost in her thoughts and chose not to interrupt.
His eyes took in the room. The walls were lined with wood panelling and the ceiling was suspended between heavy oak beams. Outside, it was now dark and the room was lit only by the fire. He looked for a light to switch on but could see none. In the stillness, he tried to imagine Arthur Penhallam in this very room – worried about his reputation – worried about his dwindling influence – dependent on the King for his position. Perhaps he had in mind to use Kate as some sort of bargaining chip with the King. What sort of woman was Kate? Julia seemed to read his thoughts.
"I think Kate was rebellious. She grew up in a time when traditional values were being challenged. That's what Cromwell and his followers were doing – challenging the authority of the King. Kate was probably too feisty and questioning of her father. He was used to women being used as pawns in the men's power game. I expect he wanted to control her but she resisted."
"So she was strong willed?"
"She must have been to think she could get away, yes. I think she was determined. She wanted something better."
There was a pause as sparks shot up from a newly ignited piece of kindling wood.
"Do you want something better?"
"What a strange question. I suppose it's because you're a journalist – always digging."
"You seem to be isolated here, miles from anywhere whilst your husband travels. What sort of life is that?"
"It's none of your business."
He knew he'd gone too far. She turned away and looked once more into the embers, her legs drawn up tightly beneath her. He decided to wait. Only the distant sound of a clock and the crackle of firewood disturbed the silence. Yet in his head he could hear sounds – nothing identifiable – just a timeless ambience. Not the present, nor the past, not even the future. It was infinite – timeless.
"Maybe you don't feel alone here," he ventured.
"What do you mean?"
"Isn't there a sense of timelessness about this house?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Like a presence left by those who have lived here before?"
"I don't think about that sort of thing. I'd go mad if I did – living in a place like this on my own."
"You never hear or see things that worry you?"
"If you mean, do I see ghosts, then the answer is no. The last time anyone actually reported seeing a ghost here was in 1912. If you mean, do I hear bumps and bangs in the night. Then, of course, I do. Old houses make noises. Why do you think I drink?"
Her voice was becoming more agitated.
"Why do you think I was pissed when you came last time? Why do you think I only drank water at lunch? Because I'm an alcoholic – that's why. Of course, I hear things. Sometimes, I see thing
s. Are they paranormal? Frankly, I don't give a shit. I'm usually pissed so I can't tell."
He was speechless. He had an urge to put his arms around her and protect her but her body language said 'no'.
"I'm sorry. I'll show you to your room now."
"No, please. I didn't mean to upset you. Stay a bit longer."
They opened a second bottle of Rioja. He told her more about his life, his broken marriage, his single life-style and his fall from grace. He told her about Nick and she listened carefully as he described the cultural differences which led Aleena's family to reject his son. With the fire restocked and the wine taking effect, he found himself saying more than he intended, surprising himself with the depth of pain and anguish that he was revealing. It struck him that there was nobody else in his life he could talk to like this. Now, with a stranger, he felt surprisingly liberated – as if she had been a part of his life forever.
Suddenly, a clock was striking eleven o'clock.
"I'm tired. We must go to bed. Let me show you to your room now."
They climbed the wooden staircase to the landing. The corridor which led to the bedrooms was furnished with antique chests and dressers which created a sombre ambience in the dim electric light. They passed by the room that she had told him was Kate's.
"This is your room here." She opened a door into a bedroom dominated by a four poster bed. "The bathroom is at the end of the corridor. I'll leave some towels and toothpaste in there for you. You'll have to make do."
She was standing in the doorway and he had to squeeze past her to get into the room. There was a moment of unplanned intimacy, just brushing past her, feeling her breath on his face and smelling her perfume. It caused him to stop and look at her – wordless. She smiled and returned his look.
"I'll cook you bacon and eggs tomorrow and then you'll have to go."
After he'd showered, he wrapped one of the large towels that she'd left in the bathroom around him to make the journey back to his room. He switched the light off in the bathroom and stood for a moment, acclimatising to the darkness. Ahead of him the corridor stretched towards the minstrel's gallery, where once mediaeval musicians entertained diners below. He tried to imagine the sounds of lutes mixed with the cacophony of conversation as the servants splashed through the stream that separated their quarters from the rest of the house. Would Kate have been amongst the guests, laughing and partying like them or would she have been banished – her presence perhaps too threatening to the interests of her scheming father? Had she stood here, watching the drunken carousing, planning her getaway?
The corridor was dark, save for light that seeped from beneath a door. He guessed it was Julia's room. He tried to walk quietly along the wood planked floor so as not to disturb her, but the boards squeaked and groaned leaving no doubt of his presence. He reached the door to his room and was about to turn the handle when his attention was caught by light that shone onto the wall from behind a half-closed door at the end of the corridor – Kate's room. He felt himself drawn there. The light came from the moon which was high in the night sky, sending fingers of light stretching into the corridor beyond.
He walked into the room. It was small – as he'd remembered it. The walls were bare although one showed signs of a large canvas having once hung there. The only furniture was a rough wooden chair. He sat down, wanting to savour the atmosphere of the room. In his mind, he could hear the sound of music and laughter drifting up from the hall below. He tried to imagine her alone and isolated. The small window offered her only means of escape from imprisonment. But she wasn't to know that her escape would be short-lived. That somehow she and her lover would die a violent death in the courtyard below.
He sat in silence, listening to the sounds in his head. Drowsiness prevented him from going back to his room.
He must have drifted off but now he is awake.
He can hear sounds and feel movement. But his body won't respond.
It remains immobile though his mind is active.
He tries to move and make sounds, but nothing happens.
He is afraid.
He is aware of the noise and laughter from downstairs. But this time it's real.
Then a presence. Someone in the room with him.
Beads of sweat form on his forehead.
His eyes are closed. But he can sense her – close to him.
Feel her unhappiness and her despair.
Then a new presence – threatening, evil, lustful.
An overpowering force.
He feels her violation. He senses her pain.
He tries to call out.
An invisible blow.
Hands on his throat, clasping.
He struggles to breathe.
Now blackness.
"What the hell are you doing here?" It was Julia, kneeling by the side of him. "Are you alright? What happened?"
He was on the floor – naked. His towel lying by the side of him. He tried to pull himself up.
"I told you, no one ever sleeps in this room. What were you doing?"
He stretched out to pull the towel over his body.
"I was on my way back from the bathroom. I saw light coming from here. I just came in to have a look. I sat down. Must have fallen asleep. How did you know I was here?"
"I heard a noise. It sounded like someone being throttled. I rushed in and there you were – writhing on the floor."
He felt his face colour.
"I'm sorry about that."
"What happened?"
"I felt a presence here."
"What sort of presence?"
"Unhappy – frightened."
He saw the blood drain from her face.
"Kate," she whispered.
"Why do you say that?"
"It's what others have said – before you. That Kate is here – still looking for her lover. I'd better take you back to your room."
She led him to the gallery outside, closing the door to Kate's room behind them as they left.
"Please do me the courtesy of staying in your room until I call you for breakfast."
"I’m sorry."
She smiled at him reproachfully and was gone.
Chapter 11: Penhallam, April 23rd 2011
He slept fitfully, memories of last night's experience clouding his mind. A banging door and creaking floorboards told him that Julia was up. He felt like an errant child, confined to his room for a tantrum. At eight o'clock – a knock on his door.
"Breakfast ready in fifteen minutes." She sounded very 'matter of fact'.
"OK, thanks. I'll just have a quick wash."
He waited whilst her steps receded down the corridor then, wrapping the towel tightly round his body, he scuttled into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, shaved and dressed, he presented himself in the kitchen. Julia was busy cooking at the stove.
"Good morning," he announced cheerily.
"Morning," she replied, keeping her eyes lowered.
He moved towards her, wishing he'd rehearsed something appropriate to say.
"About last night – look, it was just a silly dream. I'd fallen asleep and then thought I was ... well, it doesn't matter. But I expect that Rioja had something to do with it."
She concentrated on the bacon, chasing it round the frying pan with a wooden spatula.
"You remember I told you that no one has been here looking for ghosts since I've lived at Penhallam?"
"Yes."
"That's not quite true. Two years ago a reporter from the local paper turned up – a quiet, mild man. He said his passion was local history and he already knew quite a lot about the Penhallams. He'd visited the house as a boy – knew the family who lived here then. We talked for a long time. He wanted to see Kate's room. Apparently he'd stayed there once before – so I let him stay in there overnight."
Doug felt his skin tingle.
"Why?"
"I don't know really. I suppose I was feeling lonely. He was persuasive. I'd probably drunk too much."
"What happened?"
"I found him in the morning, like you, with his hands clutched round his throat. I called an ambulance. They told me he'd had a heart attack."
"Do you know what happened to him?"
"No, I lost touch."
"And he never came back?"
"Not so far as I know."
"I'd like to find him. Maybe he'd talk to me."
"I can make some enquires."
Julia tipped the bacon along with scrambled egg onto two plates.
"Sit down here," she said, indicating the pine table. "I've made you coffee." She sat down opposite him and began eating.
"Look, I don't want you to think I'm just using you in some way for my book."
"Why not? I thought that's what you were doing."
"Our talk last night. I told you things I haven't told other people. I felt easy talking to you."
She looked at him quizzically but said nothing.
"I just wanted you to know that I enjoy being with you."
She pushed her plate to one side and sat back in her chair, studying his face.
"You're a strange man, Douglas Penhallam. A hard-bitten feature writer, you're about to go on trial, you come down here to escape and now you're making a pass at me. I don't know how you do it ..."
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of capitulation.
"I'd like to come here again – after my committal hearing. There's more I need to know – about the manor, about the family, about you. Especially about you."
She led him outside to the courtyard. He turned to look at her. Their eyes met. Suddenly, without realising it, he was kissing her, his lips pressed against hers. She pulled back, startled.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean to ..."
Then he felt her hand around the back of his neck. Her lips pressed against his, moist and urgent. He seized hold of her waist and drew her towards him. She melted into his body. Then her arms stiffened – she was pushing him away.
"No, not now, not like this. We shouldn't."
The Voice Within Page 8
